


by a map half-written

by Odaigahara



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Logic | Logan Sanders Is A Good Friend, M/M, Reunions, also slight angst but it does not last
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odaigahara/pseuds/Odaigahara
Summary: “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans,” the king said, drawing Logan’s attention back like a fisherman yanking a net. “Prince Roman was unable to take you as a husband due to-- unforeseen circumstances. Alternate arrangements had to be made.”Logan took the implication-- they hadn’t told him because they thought he would have even more stringent objections, because he was difficult, too closed off, impossible to deal with-- with equanimity, which was to say that he didn’t take the shoes off his feet to fling at his father’s head. “I understand,” he said, because he did: the alliance was paramount, and therefore a marriage had to occur.He didn’t say any more. It wasn’t necessary to do so. His father’s eyes flickered, but the king said, “You will be married to Prince Remus instead,” and the crowd shifted. Logan lifted his eyes and saw a broad figure, a nearly rakish grin, the brightest green eyes he’d ever seen on a human being, with pupils edged in brown so the color was evident even from a distance by contrast alone--Oh.He knew those eyes.
Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 18
Kudos: 131
Collections: Sanders Sides 2020 Gift Exchange





	by a map half-written

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sanders Sides Gift Exchange on tumblr, for Jem (@logicalsanders)! I hope I did their wishes justice.
> 
> TW's at end notes, just in case, and thank you very much to alicat54c for beta reading :D

The royal tailor presented Logan with an elaborate dress suit, ruffled at the collar with a jewel at his throat. He recognized it as a sapphire, ostentatious even at its diminutive size and clearly meant to emphasize his kingdom’s wealth and luxury, and resisted the urge to tear it off and throw it across the room.

The suit meant that his parents’ plans were coming to fruition. It meant that the wedding was tomorrow, _really_ tomorrow-- that today was Logan’s last day of freedom before he was carted off to another realm like so much dead weight, an inconveniently organic trophy for the empire with which his parents were so desperate to ally.

The agreement suited them wonderfully, of course. In one fell swoop, they gained a trading port and rid themselves of their scholarly, ill-tempered youngest son, sending him somewhere he might not be afforded so much as the privilege of his own chambers. They were selling him like meat, and Logan couldn’t even formulate an objection. It was a practical arrangement, trading a son for a chance to grow their tiny kingdom past its shrinking, ill-defended borders. He could even credit the choice of the empire as an ally, given its power and range.

But the imbalance of it, the fact that there would be no incentive for Logan’s husband to treat him well except for personal desire, grated at him. There was nothing his parents could do if the marriage turned out boring or abusive. Nothing they would do, even, because they couldn’t afford to invalidate the treaty over one man’s difficulties with his spouse. Logan would be on his own, and if Prince Roman decided to keep him from ever studying, or from so much as cracking open a book--

Logan sucked in a breath through his teeth, making every effort to return his expression to neutrality. His worries were irrelevant. He would be married. What occurred after that would be met as it happened, and he would use the resources at his disposal to make as comfortable a life for himself as possible.

If all else failed, he supposed he might find a way to fake his death. There were herbs that could be used to feign it, causing extended periods of unconsciousness and slow, shallow breathing; the only question would be whether he could keep from being buried alive before he could awaken and escape.

Thus bolstered, Logan left the wedding suit be and crossed over to the window, observing the imperial wedding party below. They had arrived that morning in a train of carriages trailing nearly half a mile, nobles and servants and attendants all following after their prince, desperate to attend the wedding of the decade. The flamboyant black-white-gold colors of the imperial flag were plastered on everything, even braided into the horses’ manes; Logan couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been to make the trip while keeping it all clean.

He spent two hours by the window, alternatively watching and reading through his favorite passages of his most beloved books to commit them to memory. His parents would not allow him to make a bad impression by insisting on bringing his library with him; his prized possessions would remain with them, where he would never reach them again, to languish in dust and decay. He would never see these anatomical diagrams or flower dissections or treatises on the properties of matter again.

There was nothing he could do to change that fact, either, so he couldn’t dwell on it. He could only stroke his fingers over the soft bindings of his oldest and most faithful friends, doing his best to memorize their smell and feels; then, as the steward knocked at his door, he rose and put his books back on their shelves.

“Prince Logan,” the steward said, eyeing his current outfit with vague distaste. “Your fiance asks that you present yourself in the throne room.”

Logan forced himself to unclench his fists. “I was under the impression that they had only just arrived,” he said, endeavoring to keep his voice even. “Surely he would rather be shown to his room to freshen up before we meet.”

“He has requested your presence,” the steward said, harder, and Logan exhaled sharply. He wouldn’t have any more time with his books, then. Already he had to put on this pretense, pretend to be a caricature of a dutiful husband with no thoughts of his own, to perform as vassal state in this constructed microcosm of their kingdoms’ uneven alliance.

“Am I required to change?” Logan asked.

“You may come as you are,” said the steward, and Logan stepped out of his room feeling not unlike how a criminal would on the way to the gallows.

The throne room was past capacity when Logan entered. He counted retainers from both kingdoms, milling nobles waiting for any hint of gossip, for a glimpse of his expression so they could speak of the frigid prince and his reaction to his betrothed and oh _dearie_ me, isn’t that an unfortunate match, the dashing Prince Roman surely deserves better--

“Mother,” Logan greeted, “Father.” He didn’t bow. His mother pinched her lips; his father didn’t ask for the proper obeisance, only let his shoulders fall in a sigh. Logan absorbed the customary greeting and glanced around the room, attempting to pick the royal colors of the prince out of the crowd.

“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans,” his father said, drawing Logan’s attention back like a fisherman yanking a net; Logan fought not to tense further. “Prince Roman was unable to take you as a husband due to-- unforeseen circumstances. Alternate arrangements had to be made.”

Logan took the implication-- they hadn’t told him because they thought he would have even more stringent objections, because he was difficult, too closed off, impossible to deal with-- with equanimity, which was to say that he didn’t take the shoes off his feet to fling at his father’s head. “I understand,” he said, because he did: the alliance was paramount, and therefore a marriage had to occur.

He didn’t say any more. It wasn’t necessary to do so. His father’s eyes flickered, but the king said, “You will be married to Prince Remus instead,” and the crowd shifted. Logan lifted his eyes and saw a broad figure, a nearly rakish grin, the brightest green eyes he’d ever seen on a human being, with pupils edged in brown so the color was evident even from a distance by contrast alone--

Oh. He knew those eyes. _Heterochromia iridium,_ Logan had said when asked, and the other boy had said it sounded like a disease and _is it contagious, can i give it to my brother--_

Logan’s irritation fizzled out like a sodden candle. He stared-- had to force himself _not_ to stare-- as Prince Roman’s twin made his introductions, as Logan responded by rote like he’d been taught all his life, as his betrothed twitched in his finery and fielded the glares of his advisors.

The rest of the meeting passed like a dream, and though Logan could have recited the words of every noble verbatim, the memory as clear in his head as if it were occurring again in real-time, he would have had to comb back through it first; his primary recollection was of Prince Remus’s curious, familiar eyes.

*

In his chambers, Logan didn’t sleep. He paced and muttered and trawled through old memories of a Southern villa and a summer playmate, a boy so scruffy that Logan had been convinced he was a servant’s child, or a villager’s. They had dredged through ponds together. They had discussed the origins of species and the amount of blood in the human body and the severity of a burn that felt like nothing at all, had gotten filthy with mud and clay from battles with the brickburners’ children far down the hill, had headed campaigns of warfare against other children that Logan had never experienced before or since, two boys in a crowd of similar-minded fighters, play taken as seriously as war.

 _I’m training to be a soldier,_ his friend had said. _I’m gonna rip out throats with my_ teeth, and when Logan had asked his name, he’d said he was called the Duke.

The memory made Logan’s heart clench, irrationally. There was nothing amiss with his circulatory system.

Nevertheless, he left the balcony door unlocked. He was housed far above the ground, but if his memory rang true-- and it always rang true-- that would not come close to stopping Remus.

Logan swallowed. Illogical to hope. Ten years was more than enough time for a personality to change completely, even if _Logan’s_ basic nature hadn’t altered. Prince Remus was unlikely to remark upon their past acquaintance, if he even remembered it. As a rule, childhood friendships were tenuous and fleeting. A child’s emotional understanding was not as developed as that of an adult--

A knock at the balcony door. Logan startled, nearly spilling candlefire onto the pages of a half-read treatise on dragonflies, and fumbled to right the candle, heartbeat louder in his ears. “It’s unlocked,” he called, careful not to raise his voice past what the walls would muffle, and the doorknob mechanism clicked.

“You know, if I was a vampire, you’d be dead by now,” Prince Remus said cheerfully, striding into the room like he owned it. He peered over Logan’s shoulder, making Logan’s face heat, and said, “One chomp and you’d be corpse meat. How’s that make you feel?”

“I try not to, as a rule,” Logan said, tart, and Remus snickered, drawing back. Logan wished he could capture the sound to replay at a later date. Perhaps some method of inscription, so an instrument drawn over the texture would produce the requisite notes— “Also, to contradict your assertion, if you were a vampire you would not have been able to enter.”

“‘Cause the invitation was just implied?” Remus leaned on the wall, incongruous in the gilded pale chamber; his clothes were rough and travel-worn, coat heavy on his shoulders. Like this, outside of the theatre of court, he looked like a soldier barely returned from the front. The neighboring empire was constantly embroiled in war. It was another reason for this alliance, so that Logan’s kingdom would be reclassified as a resource instead of a target. “Vampires take that shit and run with it. You should see what they do to charity hospitals.”

“The implication is irrelevant,” Logan said, wanting desperately to ask what Remus meant. “There is a spell that circulates a minuscule stream around the doorframe, hidden beneath the tiles; even invited, a vampire would find himself unable to cross due to the presence of running water.” He sniffed. “My ancestors were uninterested in leaving security up to individual _whims_.”

“Bitching,” the Duke said with all sincerity, and Logan had to fight not to straighten his shoulders at the compliment-- if that was even what “bitching” meant. He had no time to respond, however, before Remus was flopping backwards onto his bed, not even bothering to remove his muddy boots before trodding on the sheets.

Heat flooded back into Logan’s face. “At least take off your shoes,” he snapped, “and tell me what you’re doing here, if you will. I had a reasonable expectation of solitude at this time.”

“What am I doing here?” Remus echoed, bouncing back off the bed. It creaked agonizingly loudly, making Logan wince. “What am _I_ doing here? What are _you_ doing here? I thought my brother was supposed to be marrying some snotty jumped-up noble with an icicle up his ass, not a guy who dissects fish with his bare hands.”

“That would not have been necessary if we’d had access to a knife, or barring that some method of preserving the carcass,” Logan defended, “and my presence here is perfectly explicable. I live here. Obviously.” In fact, he wasn’t certain what Remus was doing climbing the side of the castle if he hadn’t expected Logan’s presence; perhaps he’d meant to enter a different room and gotten lost. “You’ve still failed to answer my question.”

“Jeez, judgy much, Copnerdicus?” Remus tilted his head and grinned, showing all his teeth. Logan blinked at him. “I’m here to meet my fiance! Possibly sexily, but mostly ‘cause you are _not_ who I expected. You’re actually fun!”

“How could I not have been what you expected?” Logan asked, baffled. “ _You_ were always aware of _my_ name--”

“Please, every kingdom has kids named after the new baby royal, that means jack shit. You helped me hijack a carriage!”

“Those horses were mistreated,” Logan snapped, and Remus cackled. “And that hardly precludes me from being royalty.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Remus said. “What’ve you been reading?”

“It’s about dragonflies,” Logan said, and somehow that ended in him and Remus perched together at the edge of his bed, Logan describing the purpose of compound eyes and Remus leaning in with bald interest, throwing out questions like bludgeons to catch Logan off guard. It was a familiar tableau, weighted by habit and history; Logan found his speech relaxing, his shoulders going loose, Remus leaning into his side.

The candle burned low. Logan swallowed past his dry throat-- how long had he been speaking? Surely Remus was tired of it by now-- and said, curiosity tugging at him, “I had thought that you were on campaign.”

“Hm?” Remus had his head on Logan’s shoulder, breath warming Logan’s neck. The sensation had gone from strange to comfortable as the hours had passed, shared solitude softening their rough edges; Logan had ceased to register it as unusual for nearly as long. When Remus stood and stretched, he felt a pang of regret so sharp it may as well have been a dagger. “Oh, yeah. Me ‘n’ Roman switched.”

“Prince Roman went to the border?”

“He fights okay,” Remus said dismissively. “Mostly it’s to get him out of the way, though, since the guy he’s obsessed with got sent that way.” He snickered. “Turns out assigning the hot soldier as a bodyguard had consequences.”

Logan didn’t know how to respond to that. Feelings were difficult for him to comprehend at the best of times, and he had never met Prince Roman to establish a baseline of behavior. “Do you regret returning?”

“Why would I?” Remus asked, looking honestly bewildered. “Now I get to marry you.”

Logan couldn’t quantify his response. His breath caught, like a net that had snagged on some unseen shrapnel underwater, and the air of his chamber seemed all of a sudden to be lingering close, drawn from the same breath between them. Remus was at the desk, Logan at the bed, but the distance felt like nothing; he could have crossed it in a microsecond. He could have crossed it in the space of an _inhale_ , and Remus was tilting his head at him with that sharp unguarded expression, like a wild animal let indoors--

“I suppose that’s true,” Logan managed, and to his surprise his voice was calm and steady. “For my part, I do not anticipate any objection arising from me on the subject of our impending marriage.”

“Bet something _else_ will be arising,” Remus said, raising and lowering his eyebrows. Logan’s confused feelings were quickly smothered by more familiar bafflement.

“I just stated that I had no objection,” he said blankly, and Remus stared at him for a moment then snickered, so forceful he had to steady himself on the desk chair or fall to the ground kicking. Logan rose, less startled than anticipatory, and as he’d expected there came a knock on the door.

Remus said, “Shit,” and lunged forward, knocking their foreheads together in a sloppy, off-center kiss. It resembled romance less than being licked on the cheek by an enthusiastic stranger, but Logan found himself breathless nonetheless. The next second the balcony door was swinging open, the balcony empty but for a scuff of mud on the stone floor; Logan rushed to shut it, then wiped his face, adjusted his glasses, and went to answer whoever was knocking.

The steward stood scowling in the hallway, hand upraised to knock again. Logan regarded him icily. He was aware of his appearance-- half-dressed, with ink on his hands and sleep not entirely gone from his eyes-- and made sure to blink as if confused, adjusting his glasses again as if he felt the need to ensure he could see clearly after focusing on tight-lettered scripts. Lying was impractical, but letting someone else mislead themselves was easy: Logan forced himself to do it every day, when he bit his tongue at misinformation or questionable understandings of basic facts.

“I am not accustomed to my presence being required so late at night,” Logan said. “Has a problem arisen? Am I now engaged to some third, unrelated party?”

Some fearful part of him expected a positive response-- _yes, there’s been another change of plans, you won’t be saddled with the lesser prince after all, a suitable noble has been found who we’re sure can deal with your_ moods-- but the steward only blurted, “Well, no,” evidently caught off guard. “But there were reports of-- that is to say, someone heard-- noises, from your chambers. If you are doing anything untoward--”

“I have never been disallowed from reading books before,” Logan said, starting to frown. He had never been disallowed visitors, either, but he supposed Remus would be an exception, for the upcoming nuptials if nothing else-- though really it would be preferable to have rumors spread about being intimately involved with his _betrothed,_ as opposed to anyone else, so objections there seemed especially silly.

“You haven’t been,” the steward said, mouth twisting, trying to peer past him into the chamber. “Are you certain you are alone in your room?”

“Are you suggesting that I could be unaware?” Logan asked, honestly confused by this point, and after a few more seconds of exchange the steward finally left, though only after admonishing Logan to put out his candles and retire to bed. Evidently his physical appearance was more important than any knowledge he might manage to scrape from his poor, soon-to-be-abandoned books.

The wedding was tomorrow, after all. Thinking of it, Logan felt something akin to vertigo, a swooping feeling in his stomach like staring off the edge of a cliff. He found himself playing with his sleeves and forced his hands still, taking a breath. The facts were as follows: the wedding was tomorrow, he was marrying Prince Remus instead of Prince Roman, Remus had turned out to be a childhood playmate-- and, most importantly, he was likely still somewhere on the grounds.

A brief, disinterested study of common romantic behavior-- Logan had found a book-- told him that Remus had likely intended his attempt at a kiss to be a goodbye, at least until the next day. As such, if Logan wanted to meet him again, he would have to initiate the encounter.

Logan pulled on his riding boots and waistcoat, rubbed his glasses clear, and made his way to his balcony. A chip on one of the marble pillars told him that Remus had likely used some sort of grappling hook; Logan frowned at the indentation, considering, then glanced over the side of the balcony at the thick rosebushes below, went back inside for a thicker coat and something to cover his face, and jumped over the side.

The thicker coat protected his skin as he’d hypothesized, and the branches of the bushes broke the force of his fall by extending it over a length of time, lessening its overall impact. He left the heavy coat in the branches, stuffing it down where the groundskeeper wouldn’t see, then unwound the scarf from his head and retrieved his glasses from his pocket. He hadn’t wanted to risk them getting scratched.

The fall took some of the breath out of him. Logan gasped past the adrenaline once he was free of the heavy covering, reveling in the momentary freedom, then shook himself and straightened. In order to deduce where Remus had gone, he would have to look for clues. The thought made him want to jump up and down, just a little, and with no one around to see he indulged in the excited motion for a brief second. Then the game was on.

With only the torches at the far walls lit, the grounds were remarkably dark. Logan spent another moment gazing up at the stars, tracing the bright scattered patterns, as clear and distant as glimmers on ice, and let his eyes adjust. Finding the footprints was trivial, after; he recognized the tread of Remus’s boots, having glimpsed them in his chambers.

They didn’t lead toward the wing of the castle reserved for royal guests. Intrigued, Logan followed them past the western edge of the castle, toward the dark pines and game trails that made up the hunting grounds his father kept for personal use, and found himself trodding down a thin unkempt trail that he suspected was used mostly by groundskeepers. His father, who favored horses, preferred to use a wider path.

The pine needles at his feet muffled his steps, but he couldn’t entirely stop his legs from brushing through undergrowth, and the sounds were loud in the nighttime silence. In the distance he could hear the occasional murmur of insects or shift of some nocturnal creature’s passage, but his kingdom was Northern, and even in summer they had nothing so loud as cicadas.

The tall spires of the pine trees blocked out the constellations and their light. Logan stumbled a few times, unable to see far past his own outstretched hands, but the new sensation of being alone in a dark forest never matured into fear. He felt awake instead, a shock of stark clarity like a breath of cold air.

Logan did not easily fear. As a child, told stories of monsters in closets and under beds, he had passed nights cramped into dark corners or under furniture, waiting for the first sign of an intruding beast, and had been disappointed but unsurprised when none appeared. Now, outdoors alone at night, all he felt was that same wild, determined curiosity-- and, beyond it, the resolution to find where Prince Remus had gone.

It didn’t take long. He remained on the path, dark-adjusted eyes picking out a scrap of cloth on a thornbush overhanging the trail, and emerged into a clearing where the pine trees’ roots had never quite taken hold and a delicate stream lanced through the ground like a ribbon. There was a shape there with his legs outstretched in the grass.

“There’s rock less than two inches below the topsoil,” Logan said for lack of any better ideas, and the figure shrieked and leaped to his feet, bristling with surprise. “If there weren’t, this clearing wouldn’t exist.”

Prince Remus stared at him wildly, red-eyed and vicious; his fingers were closed around a knife he’d pulled from his boot, shoulders tense and ready. His feet were far enough apart that he could not be easily pushed over, should it come to a struggle. “That’s not the only thing that wouldn’t exist! _Fuck_ , talk about plot twists, I would’ve slit your stupid throat!”

Logan barely refrained from informing him that throats were incapable of stupidity. “I’m aware,” he said, trying to keep his tone from implying the _obviously_ he desperately wanted to add. “That is why I am standing out of immediate range. Nevertheless, I apologize for startling you. May I sit down?”

Remus had been relaxing over the course of his explanation; at those words he collapsed back into a seated position and patted the ground, watching Logan as he picked through the grass and settled next to him. “So what’s got you out in the woods at night?” he asked as soon as Logan was beside him. “Insatiable wanderlust? Insatiable _actual_ lust? Are _you_ secretly a vampire?”

“I was looking for you,” Logan said, “because it occurred to me that once we are married tomorrow, neither of us will have any time to ourselves.”

“We’ll have _sexy_ times,” Remus said lasciviously, “probably. If you’re into that.”

Suddenly Logan was incredibly glad of the darkness, which hopefully obscured the expression on his face. “I have no objections,” he managed. “Though I should inform you that you are missing the point. I meant that neither of us will have any freedom, in the sense that we will be either unaccompanied, without duties, or allowed to range past the immediate limits of your parents’ authority. I expect that with your brother on the border, one heir must be kept in stock at all times.”

“Like stud horses,” Remus agreed, nodding. “Emphasis on the stud, and also the horse, but mostly in the sense of horse co--”

“As such,” Logan blurted, louder, “our last chance for any true freedom is technically tonight.” Remus fell quiet, watching him. “So long as we’re back by morning, which I calculate will occur in roughly seven hours, we might engage in any number of activities.”

“Yeah?” In the dim starlight, Remus’s eyes were very bright. Logan repressed a sudden consciousness of his betrothed’s broad shoulders and averted his eyes. “And what kind of _activities_ did you have in mind?”

Logan cleared his throat. “I’ve packed matches, a lantern, a small fishing net, and a blanket, and there are several areas in this clearing where a fire might safely be started. Firewood will not be difficult to collect, and as you already have a knife--”

“We can _camp,”_ Remus breathed, and Logan nodded at him; they were clearly on the same figurative page.

“I’ve also brought the treatise we were reading previously,” he said, more uncertain, “though of course if you would prefer simply talking or sitting in silence, it would be understandable; I’m told that it’s often difficult to listen to me for long periods of time.”

“Fuck whoever said that in an orifice that shouldn’t see open air,” Remus scoffed. “Your voice is basically the best thing ever, especially when you’re talking about weird shit. Let’s get this caravan on the road. How active d’you think the fish are at night?”

“Minnows are often diurnal,” Logan said at once, “but the deeper eddy by the edge of the forest is nearly certain to hold fish who are more active at dusk. I would suggest starting there.”

“Then you can start the fire,” Remus cheered, and grabbed for the net that Logan had brought out of his pack. Their hands touched, amazingly warm in the chill night air, and both of them stilled-- Logan perversely aware of his weakness and finery, nothing like a proper scientist’s at all, and Remus just watching him, tense with repressed motion like a coiled-up spring. He had always been that way, as long as Logan could remember, and suddenly it felt as though they were children again, conspiring together in the dark, memory overlayered on reality like decoupage.

Logan swallowed past a dry throat. “I-- am very glad you aren’t your brother,” he said, instead of the thousand other things clotting up his tongue, and Remus grinned, a flash of teeth in the dark.

“D’you know,” he said, bright and bitter, “you’re the first person who’s ever said that to me? You barely even knew I _had_ a brother before. You didn’t know anything.”

“Then it is fortunate that I am such a quick learner,” Logan said, “and that I am accustomed to telling people when they’re wrong.” His fingers loosened on the net, and Remus took it from him. “Realistically, we only have six hours until we have to be back in our respective chambers. I would suggest that we make the most of our time.”

“I’m gonna see if I can eat a fish raw,” Remus said with relish, and Logan let himself faintly smile; Remus was already heading toward the stream, not even waiting for the lantern’s light, and was humming a salacious tune he’d first heard at the summer villa when they had been small. 

Far away something rustled in the bushes, and an owl hooted closer overhead, eerie and soft. A fire was needed, quickly, just to chase away the dark, but Logan felt no great urgency. The nameless knot in his chest had loosened completely, grief at the thought of being _traded_ falling away, and there was only a buzzing anticipation in its place, of new books and discoveries and sloppy kisses in the dark.

Tonight could be an experiment; in the future, if they desired time to themselves, they would have to be cleverer by far. The scrutiny would only increase once Logan entered a foreign court. There would be rumors and machinations, perhaps efforts to destroy his reputation in order to affect a divorce. He would have to exercise a great deal of caution.

All of a sudden his impending displacement seemed more thrilling than daunting. Logan glanced at Remus, humming a snatch of the same Southern drinking song under his breath, and flicked the match alight.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: arranged marriage, slight implied PTSD, Remus-typical language


End file.
